


Caught in the Act

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dubious Consent, Facials, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Snooping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally a pair of ficlets on Tumblr, the first written to the prompt 'How long have you been standing there?' and the second from a request for a continuation. </p><p>Trebeka sent me, 'The prompt with the strange neat 'serial killer' house, belonging to Jack Rollins... where Brock comes to stay and starts jerking off on the bed with Jack's shirt over his face- as you do, of course - does that end in slightly voyeuristic Hot Power Top Jack teaching Brock some manners or something more sinister? Or oh dear, was it not meant to be that sinister at all?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Act

‘Good of you to help me out, buddy,’ says Brock, as he hauls his kit bag into Rollins’ modest little house.

‘No problem,’ Jack says slowly, like he does everything. ‘Asbestos, huh? Nasty stuff.’

‘Whole heating system,’ explains Brock. ‘It’s gonna take ‘em two weeks to pull it all out, replace it.’ He looks around the bare, narrow hallway, painted white with a smooth wooden floor. Down the hall there’s a galley kitchen, and off to one side a small, square living room with two chairs, a TV and a bookshelf. The angle poise lamp over one chair has the look of meticulous placement. There’s nothing at all on the slice of kitchen counter that Brock can see.

Jack stumps wordlessly up the stairs and Brock follows. Upstairs are two bedrooms and a bathroom; Jack waves him into the smaller of the two. It’s not an unpleasant space, clean and light with cream walls and a single bed with an empty nightstand. The coverlet on the bed is dark blue, and looks like it might be soft. There’s a shelf over by the window with a line of old Penguin books, stripes aligned. A ladder-back chair sits in the far corner, placed for reading at the window.

‘I’ll go out for groceries,’ Jack says. ‘You unpack.’

‘Unpack  _where_?’ Brock asks, looking around the Spartan room, but Jack’s already gone. What the hell, he’s lived out of a kit bag before. He drops it heavily onto the chair, which creaks but holds. A glance out the window shows Jack’s old red truck chugging to the end of the road. Lots of tiny, boxy houses in neat rows, with well-kept squares of grass out front. Not a wealthy neighbourhood, but a quiet one. Definitely not what Brock expected, or would ever want to inhabit – no, give him a modern apartment in the city, close to the bars and the girls, close to the trouble. Or, you know, a shitty, ancient rental packed with asbestos fibre.

This suburb is creepy. Actually Jack’s house is pretty creepy.

‘We kill people for a living,’ Brock mutters to himself, ‘but this is some serial killer shit.’ He patrols the top floor, pokes through the white medicine cabinet (a pack of aspirin, a knee support, a mini first aid kit still in the original packaging, a new toothbrush). He grimaces at the avocado bathroom fittings. The toilet is so clean that he could make someone eat out of it. Jack’s toothbrush and toothpaste are aligned parallel to one another on the side of the sink. There’s a hand towel.

Onward, to Jack’s bedroom. Holy shit. Spooky. Wood-framed bed, nightstand, matching chest of drawers, laundry basket. That’s it. There’s a book on the nightstand, and a lamp. Brock inspects the spine –  _Colt: The History of a Classic American Sidearm_. He flips the pages; tiny writing, endless chapters, six picture pages in the middle. There’s a gun and a phone charger in the nightstand drawer.

‘Where do you keep the porn, dude?’ Brock asks aloud. ‘What do you do with yourself at the weekend?’ Hunkering down by the bed, he runs his arm under the mattress. Nothing, not even a battered  _Playboy_ from 1989 or something. He snickers to himself. This is too good. A tiny tingle runs down his back, that thrill he gets when he’s palming someone’s secrets away for future use. He rummages through the dresser, trying not to disturb the perfect right-angled edges of all Jack’s ugly shirts. He’s got two pairs of jeans –  _two_. There’s a pair of running shoes under the edge of the bed.

It’s not until Brock’s pawing through the laundry basket, into which Jack has  _folded_ his dirty clothes, that the tingle becomes an erotic imperative. God, is there anything better than prying? If there is, Brock hasn’t encountered it yet. He pulls a navy blue shirt out of the laundry hamper and it unfolds into his hand, smelling like sweat and dust and gun oil. Smells good, like a secret life, like weekend trips to the shooting range and yard work and private activities that Jack leaves at home. Brock wonders if Jack has a lover. It’s a curious notion, but it makes him kind of hard in his jeans. He perches on the end of the bed, shirt in hand, moulds his hand over his crotch for a moment.

Okay, he can be quick. Yeah, he’s doing this. Brock unzips deftly with his right hand, lies back with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, toes touching the floor. Note to self: smooth down covers afterwards. He grabs his dick firmly, goes at it fast and strong. Fuck, Jack’s shirt smells good, a far cry from the leather-and-sweat of the locker room, of the quinjet. Yeah, that’s the thing, that’s it – he jacks off furiously, tensing up his thighs to come faster – yeah, this is his little secret, Jack’ll never know. He grunts, thinks about peepshows, thinks about the girl on the train yesterday with her bare legs showing up the thigh in her sundress, thinks about jizzing on Jack’s shirt and hiding it. He’s ready to shoot off now, hungry for it, shoving Jack’s shirt over his face and mouthing at one stained underarm until deodorant and sweat and fabric are musty and bitter on his tongue by turns.

‘ _Uh_ , yeah,’ he says in a rush of breath when he comes a handful of spunk into his waiting palm. He flicks the blue shirt away from his face and unpeels his eyelids to— _oh._  Jack’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded, expression totally inscrutable. ‘Buddy,’ he says, weak from coming and from discovery. His hand’s wet around his cooling cock. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

Jack unbuckles his belt, pulls it through his belt loops with a sibilant, sliding sound. He folds it over in his big hands, grasping the tail and buckle together.  _Serial killer shit_ , Brock remembers himself saying earlier, and then Jack is walking towards the bed, lithe and dangerous like a tiger stalking prey.

 _Oh shit, oh shit,_ Brock thinks, immediately covering his exposed dick with Jack’s dirty shirt. Jack flicks his gaze over, watches Brock do it. Brock flushes hot from his hairline down his chest; feels it burning, feels himself lighting up, red and writhing with shame. He’s not supposed to get caught. He’s never supposed to get caught. It’s other people’s secrets that he wants uncovered, not his own. Jack pads across to the nightstand and takes out his gun. Brock’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice squeaking a little at the end. Jack doesn’t bother looking at him. He inspects his firearm and closes the drawer with his knee. His belt hangs loosely in his left hand.

‘Get up the bed,’ Jack says, characteristically terse. Brock rolls over onto his hands and knees, watching the gun in Jack’s hand with his pulse beating in his throat, in his head. Jack wouldn’t… would he? When he reaches the pillows, Jack makes a circling motion with his left hand. ‘Turn over.’ In a trice, Brock’s arms are stretched above his head and he’s lying flat on his back with his wrists belted firmly to the bed frame. His dick’s still hanging out his pants, his right hand sticky with his own spunk. He can smell it on himself, and knows Jack must be able to smell it too. Jack appraises him for a moment and tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans. He stretches down over Brock’s legs and hooks up his soiled blue shirt from the end of the bed.

He wads it up and stuffs it into Brock’s mouth. Brock’s eyes widen.

‘Don’t want you chattering at me,’ Jack mutters, almost to himself, and then he unzips his jeans, pulls his cock out from his boxers and swings a leg over Brock’s chest. He settles himself easily, comfortably, kneeling over Brock and blocking out the light from the window. Jack spits in his palm, wets his cock, and starts tugging himself off almost lazily. There’s a smooth roll to his wrist and he thumbs over the head of his cock on the upstroke. If Brock wrapped his hand around Jack’s cock –  _if_ , he thinks, paralysed by the sight of Jack Rollins casually jerking himself not six inches away – if he got his hand on it, Brock thinks it’d fill out the ring of his fingers and maybe then some.  It curves up a little, dark red and thick-veined.

Jack speeds up. His hand makes a wet sound and the bed creaks a little in rhythm. His left hand’s resting on his left thigh; he’s hard, but he doesn’t really look aroused. He’s jacking off, it’s not a sexual encounter. Brock feels weirdly invisible. He doesn’t like it, so he shifts his weight a little so Jack can’t help but feel him moving. Jack looks down, makes eye contact. His brow furrows, the blood’s showing in his face now. Under the smell of his own semen, Brock can smell Jack, his plain soap and the human, musky smell of his cock. Jack’s left palm hits the wall, and he’s kneeling up, aligning himself ready to—

‘Uh,’ says Brock through the t-shirt, ‘Nnn—’ Jack answers with a long, deep exhalation of breath and then he starts to come, cock jerking in his fist. He squeezes, milks himself through it and Jesus fuck, it’s like some crazy porno, the amount of jizz there is. Jack comes in pulses, and Brock’s barely got time to close his eyes before it hits his face, pooling on his eyelids and trickling down his temples, warm and wet across the bridge of his nose, on his lips, a couple of tiny drops on his throat.

Jack takes a breath or two, and then Brock hears him zip his jeans back up. The bed leans, and Jack dismounts. He pulls the shirt out of Brock’s mouth, unties the belt and stamps off to the spare room. Brock sits up, rubbing at his wrists, and tries to wipe off his eyelids with his thumbs so he can see.

Jack reappears in the doorway.

‘Now get out,’ he says, voice flat, and jerks his thumb down the stairs. Brock scrambles for the door, face flaming and reeking of come. He almost falls down the stairs in his haste to leave. His bag’s lying just outside the front door and he grabs it. Just as he’s about to make a run for the safety of his car, something soft hits him in the back. He turns, picks up the pile of blue fabric on the ground. ‘Keep the shirt,’ says Jack, and slams his front door.

 


End file.
